


Be known in its aching

by mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hand Jobs, Healing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shibari, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Subspace, Suspension, Tactile Telekinesis, Telekinesis, Tenderness, as a treat, dyslexic eliot, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: It's a rainy night in Brooklyn.~~~Eliot and Quentin take care of each other.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 18
Kudos: 167





	Be known in its aching

**Author's Note:**

> So sometimes when you're in isolation for a long time you sit down and write 2k of gentle dom/sub fic even tho you have a lot of other projects to be working on. It is what it says on the tin, so read the tags. This takes place in after an alternate season four where Eliot and Q both got saved and now they're living happily ever after, with all of the aches and pains that that entails.
> 
> Title is from Hozier's "Wasteland Baby"

It’s a rainy night in Brooklyn. A bit chilly too, but you’d never know it from inside the living room of the shoebox one bedroom Eliot shares with his boyfriend. He’s made sure it’s plenty warm, a little spell keeping the temperature at a perfect sixty-seven degrees. The lights are dim and golden, and the sound of the rain is better than any white noise track Eliot could have curated for this evening’s activities. He’s comfortable on the love seat sofa, his left leg stretched out on the ottoman in front of him to try and keep his knee from getting stiff. It’s been twinging all day. It’s probably just the rain, but he’s made a note in his phone to mention it to Arlene at his next appointment. 

Eliot checks his phone now. It’s been almost an hour. He feels a bit of a tingle deep in the recesses of his magical reserves. Not an alarm by any means, but the kind of courtesy warning that he wishes his joints would give him before they gave out. He stretches, telegraphing his movements, then starts to gather the papers he’s spread out on the sofa. It’s circumstances for a cooperative spell he’s promised to help Kady and her hedge coalition with. They’re still ironing out some of the magic surges from last year and for the next phase they need a telekinetic who’s also a Pisces. All in a day’s work for a Magician. 

With the printed diagrams organized he slips the pink tinted acetate off his laptop screen and into its protective sleeve. Now there’s some magic, though there’s nothing spelled about the piece of plastic he’s been using to help him read for almost six months.

Eliot spent twenty-eight years of his life being told he just wasn’t a “book learner” before his physical therapist found him mouthing out the words to his home exercise instructions and asked if he’d ever been screened for dyslexia. It turns out there’s shit you can do about that. Muggle shit, even. 

He still can’t explain the science of it. He just knows he gets a lot more reading done when he’s scanning the letters through a magenta overlay.

Tucking the acetate away with the rest of his papers, Eliot puts his laptop to sleep and sets it aside. That’s enough work. After an hour, holding his attention in two places at once is starting to take more than a minimal effort, and Eliot knows where he would prefer to put his focus for the rest of the evening. 

“Rise and shine, Q.” 

Quentin isn’t asleep. He is, thanks to Eliot, levitated about four feet off the floor in front of the couch, his head tipped back in an expression of absolute euphoria as he drifts lightly on his back like he’s been suspended in amber. The first time they tried it Quentin made all kinds of nerdy references to  _ cryopods  _ and  _ stasis chambers _ , but Eliot just thinks he looks beautiful, like a fairy tale prince under a spell. He’s tied up all pretty, silk keeping his arms bound behind his back up to the elbow. Eliot spent hours practicing the knots and it was worth it. Quentin looks gorgeous, his skin gold in the dim light and his cheeks flushed. His chest rises and falls with steady but shallow breaths and he’s half hard in his boxers. Eliot savors the tableau for a few extra seconds before he rises from the couch. 

They used to play with suspension like this in Fillory, before Teddy was born and after he left to make his fortune. It took awhile for him to be able to fully get into the right headspace with it, but it’s not like Eliot hasn’t levitated himself plenty of times. He wouldn’t do it to Q if he couldn’t be sure it was safe. The funny thing is, Eliot’s telekinesis doesn’t feel that different from muggle suspension. Like a net tugging you off the ground, a pull behind your breastbone and light, all over pressure against your skin. 

It’s Quentin’s favorite thing. Sometimes they don’t even fuck, it’s that good, and it’s been hard earned.

If you’re very lucky, when you live fifty years with someone in an alternate timeline you get past the vanilla—the hot, amazing, wonderful vanilla—and you find the deep dark needing in them. In Fillory they found it in each other: Quentin’s need to feel held and loved, Eliot’s need to care and hold. They did it more as they got older and arthritic joints started to limit them in other ways. Eliot has a very clear memory of being seventy, the exertion of his magic like a pleasant muscle stretch and Quentin’s brown eyes twinkling with bliss. 

Then Eliot died. Then Eliot said no. Then came the Monster.

Quentin was alone for so long, without anyone to take care of him like he needed. 

Without  _ Eliot  _ to take care of him like he needed. 

So sue him, he’s making up for lost time. He’s been brave—Quentin has been so brave—and now they get to be endlessly, nauseatingly tender with each other. 

Eliot steps deliberately, so Quentin isn’t startled when he reaches from behind him to frame his face with his hands. He circles his thumbs lightly against his temples as Quentin sighs deeply, as if waking from a dream.

“How are you, sweetheart?” 

Quentin’s eyes flutter open, a languid smile at his lips. 

“So good, El.” Eliot knits his fingers in Quentin’s hair where it hangs free, dragging them slow and even against his scalp. “S’like I can feel you everywhere. Holding me.” 

“That’s right,” Eliot murmurs, tracing circles over the hinge of Quentin’s jaw with his thumb. “I’m holding you. You’re being so good for me.” 

Quentin blinks slowly, utterly slack in the net of ropes that criss-cross his chest and wrap up his arms. His pupils are totally blown. 

“You’re down deep, aren’t you, baby?” 

“Yeah.” Quentin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “It’s quiet. Safe.” 

Eliot presses his lips to Quentin’s brow, supporting his head in his hands. There’s no task more precious in his whole life than this. 

“You are safe,” he promises. “I’m here.” 

Quentin’s eyes are bright, even though his voice is soft and slurred. “I know.” 

God, that tingles over Eliot’s skin better than any of the drugs he used to numb himself with.

“I’m gonna bring you up a little,” Eliot says, keeping his voice low and even. He floats Q a little higher, so he can tip his head back onto his shoulder. “It’ll feel good, I promise.” 

Quentin closes his eyes on a soft exhale, turning so he can brush his slack lips against Eliot’s throat.

“Okay.”

Control has been the dream of Eliot’s life since he was fourteen years old, and officially retired from bullshit fantasy magic quests, he’s finally had the time to perfect it. With a deep yoga breath, Eliot sends a ripple through his hold on Quentin. The steady all over pressure— _like a_ _weighted blanket_ , Quentin has told him, _except it feels like you_ —flexes, pushing down Quentin’s spine like a dozen of Eliot’s hands working their knuckles against every possible spot of tension. Quentin gasps, his spine arching beautifully. It pushes his chest out, and Eliot takes advantage. He plays his real hands over his nipples, pinching just a little until they turn to rosy peaks and Quentin’s breath has turned to needy panting in his ear. 

“Just a little more,” Eliot promises, and sends another thrum through his magic. Quentin shudders, struggling against the ropes just a little, his cock a hard line against his underwear now thanks to Eliot’s touch. He’s been aroused the whole time, half hard since Eliot tied the first knot across his chest, like always, but Eliot just wanted him a little more aware for this part.

Eliot skims his hand down Quentin’s belly until he can slip under the waistband of his boxers. He wraps his hand around Quentin’s cock and it’s like an electric shock ripples up his baby’s spine. 

“Oh god,” Quentin gasps as Eliot gives him smooth, firm pumps. Q is so wet already, so hard. He’s gonna come in a minute, he’s been on the edge so long. Lovely. 

“Shhh, sweet boy, you’ve been so good,” Eliot murmurs. “You’ve done so well. My beautiful boy.” 

Quentin’s head rolls on Eliot’s shoulder, baring his lovely pale throat. 

“Daddy,” he pleads, voice hardly more than a whisper, no inhibitions left as Eliot pushes him to the very edge. “Daddy, please.”

Eliot covers the stretch of Quentin’s exposed throat with the palm of his hand. Not squeezing. Not exerting any pressure at all. Just holding him, like he promised. Quentin whimpers regardless, his back arching as much as he can in the firm hold of Eliot’s rope work. Eliot hushes him again, his lips right at Q’s ear as he strokes him to completion. 

“I’m here, pretty boy. Come for me.” 

Quentin turns his face into Eliot’s shoulder, his cock twitching and spitting in Eliot’s hand as he gives a soft, cracked cry. 

“There you go.” Come drips down Eliot’s fist to slick the way as he coaxes Quentin through his orgasm with steady firm pulls of his cock. He’s so lovely, so good, and Eliot tells him so.

“I’m so lucky,” he whispers, still petting him even after he’s gone soft in his hand. “So lucky to share this with you. Thank you, sweetheart.” 

“ _ El. _ ” Eliot lets him go, resting his sticky hand on Quentin’s belly as his love squirms against the crook of his neck. Quentin’s shoulders shake a bit, and Eliot pays no mind as a few hot tears leak onto his shirt collar. He just holds him, and pets his hair, and slowly slowly lowers him down to the floor, where he laid a pile of cushions at the start. By the time Eliot sits Quentin is mostly draped over his lap, a watery smile on his lips as he nuzzles into Eliot’s throat. 

“Hold still, baby. I’m going to let you out now.” 

When Quentin nods his assent Eliot tugs on the quick release knot binding his elbows. It takes much less time to get him out of the ropes than it does to put him in them. A few strategic tugs and Quentin is draped in a loose pile of red silk. It’s a good look on him. The whole shibari thing is just for the aesthetic, really. Eliot can easily keep Quentin’s arms behind his back while he holds him up, but he’s a hedonist, and it doubles as a good transition to get Q in and out of subspace. There are few pleasures in this life as sweet as watching Quentin’s eyes go hazy with every twist of Eliot’s careful knotwork across his chest. 

Except for maybe the groan of relief that rumbles out of Quentin’s chest when he undoes the ties and he can finally drop his shoulders out of posture. Eliot massages away the pins and needles, kissing Q sweet and tender until he gets his wits enough to start kissing back. 

After a few minutes of that a tiny furrow appears in Quentin’s brow.

“You’re hard,” he realizes, as though Eliot hasn’t been touching him basically nonstop for the last hour. The sensation of Eliot’s telekinesis is kind of a two way street.

Eliot hums. “You tend to have that effect on me,” is all he says, shifting so his erection isn’t pressing against Quentin’s thigh. “Think nothing of it, darling.” 

Quentin pets his square hand over Eliot’s ribs, still fawn clumsy with all the endorphins in his blood. 

“Want you to feel good.” 

“Believe me, Q, I do.” Eliot kisses Quentin’s brow until he feels the furrow smooth under his lips. “Nothing makes me feel as good as taking care of you. I’ll handle myself later.” 

“Or you could handle yourself now.” Quentin says, all sly now that he’s coming back to the surface. “And I could watch.” 

“Hm, maybe,” Eliot hums. “You know what I’d like you to do first?” 

Quentin huffs a laugh into the crook of Eliot’s neck. 

“Drink one of your stupid BDSM juice boxes?” 

“Got it in one, darling. Do you want mixed berry or fruit punch?” 

Quentin replaces some electrolytes while Eliot inspects him for rope burn. There isn’t any, but Eliot rubs some cream into his wrists and elbows and his wooden shoulder just in case. Aftercare is important, and any activity that involves Eliot rubbing his hands all over Quentin’s mostly naked body isn’t exactly a hardship. It doesn’t do anything to help his persistent erection either. 

So yeah, he ends up on his back on the living room floor with his hand down his own pants. Still dressed, because Quentin  _ likes _ that. He’s still mostly naked, half draped over Eliot’s chest, kissing him sloppy and murmuring filthy hot things in Eliot’s ear like  _ I love you _ and  _ you take such good care of me. _

“God, Q, you’re so pretty, so gorgeous, all tied up for me,” Eliot sighs, jerking himself off through his open fly. Fuck, he’s killed with his magic, snapped necks with it, and Quentin still lets him use it to love him. It’s something Eliot needs, just as badly as Quentin needs rope and pressure and orgasms to turn off his extra loud brain. 

“You’re—fuck, Eliot—  _ you’re  _ gorgeous, just like this,” Quentin manages, sneaking open a button or two of Eliot’s shirt so he can play with his chest. “You keep me so safe. You’re so good to me.”

And Eliot needs—he just has to be on top of him, has to have Quentin  _ under him _ . So he rolls, and Quentin goes where Eliot puts him. Of course he does. 

“I only want to be good to you,” Eliot breathes into Quentin’s ear, still stroking himself haphazardly. He’s half on his knees, rainy day twinges forgotten, all of him still dressed and all of Quentin still bare and waiting— just _waiting_ for Eliot to come. “You’re my sweet boy. Mine to take care of. Always, baby. Anything you need.”

“All I need is you.” 

Eliot’s so close.  _ So close _ , and Q is so pretty and lovely and  _ sweet, _ his hands inside Eliot’s shirt, rubbing over his pecs. He’s safe and sated under him where he belongs. He’s even gonna let Eliot jerk off on him now.  _ Wants  _ it, even. 

“Daddy,” Quentin breathes, pink cheeked now that the soft edges are sharpening up again. God, Eliot’s sweet boy, giving him everything even though it makes him squirm.

“Daddy, I’m yours.”

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . Eliot groans as he comes, shooting all over Quetin’s belly where he’s already a mess. Pleasure thrums in his blood as he drops his head against Quentin’s shoulder and just  _ breathes. _

He’s done good. He’s earned this. Quentin feels good, and now Eliot gets to feel good. 

He comes back to awareness with the absent knowledge that Quentin has one hand tucked into Eliot’s hair. The other is between their bellies, tracing curiously through the come Eliot just got all over him. Eliot can feel it, kind of, the motion of Quentin’s arm as he rubs it into his skin a little.

“Baby,” he scolds playfully, just to let Quentin know he’s been caught. Quentin just brings his own fingers to his mouth shamelessly and licks them clean.

“I know that’s gonna be gross in like, one second,” He says, cheeks still bright red. “But right now—fuck, El.”

Hmm. That’s something worth exploring at a later date. For now, Eliot just kisses the side of Q’s throat.

“Messy boy,” he purrs into Quentin’s ear, nipping at the lobe. “I love you.” 

Quentin giggles, still a little punchdrunk. 

“Love you, too.” 

Eliot kisses him, on the mouth, this time, before his bad knee makes itself known again. 

“You might, uh, need to help me out of this position,” he admits, relieved to see nothing but a smile on Quentin’s face. 

“You took care of me, El,” he promises. “Now I can take a little care of you.” 

With his boyfriend’s help Eliot is soon on his feet, and they hobble off to the shower together. There’s ice in the freezer for Eliot’s knee, and a new episode of bake off queued up on Eliot’s laptop for them to watch in bed after. They’ll make out for a while, and then Q will fall asleep halfway through draped over Eliot like a clingy little octopus. 

Perfection.

It’s just another rainy—

—safe—

—quiet—

—erotic—

—loving—

— _ alive _ —

— _ incredible— _

_ — _ night in Brooklyn.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I look forward to reading your comments.


End file.
